


A Little Dream (Not Necessarily of Me)

by keptin



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Inception AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-31
Updated: 2012-12-31
Packaged: 2017-11-23 02:40:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/617187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keptin/pseuds/keptin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dick Roman is even harder to kill in dreams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Little Dream (Not Necessarily of Me)

**Author's Note:**

> Inception AU for my friend Michelle.  
> (hurgh im too tired to format right now)  
> cross-posted to my ffn, deviantart, and tumblr.

Point men and forgers, historically, have quite a history with each other. Gabriel attributes this to point men, historically, being so damn fun to mess with. If you ask Sam, it’s a miracle forgers don’t have a history with everyone. Especially since lately he’s taken to changing the audio cue every time they go over the geography.

“It was the heeeeeeeeeeeeeeat of the moooooomeeeeeeeeeeeeeent~”

Dean scowls and beheads himself. He’s the first one the rest of them see upon waking up and he’s still wearing the same frown.

“If you don’t get your act together,” he starts, brandishing his line at Gabriel and managing to sound exactly like his father, “we’re getting you replaced.”

But two weeks pass with Sexyback and Candyman respectively and Gabriel’s still with them. It would be easy to assume this is because his step-brother’s their architect and dating Dean but it turns out there’s not many forgers out there with quite the skill as Gabriel has. Which adds one more off-kilter personality to their tottery machine of a team.

Sam packs up the PASIV and locks it, tucking it under his arm while Gabriel skips alongside him as per usual.

“So, Samsquatch, what’cha up to now?” he asks in a lilting tone that usually means he’s got something planned. Ahead of them Dean’s on the phone calling Bobby about the sedative they’re ordering and yadda yadda yadda while Cas stands at his place beside him like a very calm watchdog. No escape, unless he wants to piss off a few people in the process.

“Look,” Sam sighs, hefting the PASIV. “we really need to work on this if we’re going to finish the job without getting arrested or kicked out of the country. So I’m staying here to research-“

“Oh, you’re no fun,” Gabriel interrupts, pulling a Hershey’s bar out of his jacket pocket and offering some to Sam, who turns it down, before biting the corner off. “Hey, come on, you need a break.”

He takes Sam’s free hand and starts off towards a small curtained-off section of the floor. It houses a circle of four moldy lawn chairs with a table in the middle, and Gabriel tugs him down into one and puts the PASIV on the table, drawing two lines from it and hooking them both up when they’ve gotten themselves nice and cozy.

Sam fixes Gabriel with an apprehensive expression as he plops himself into the chair next to him.

“You’ll see, kiddo-“

And they’re sitting on a snowy ledge in the dead of night, watching vibrant streaks of color blot the sky. Sam gapes and Gabriel chuckles.

“You like it?” he prompts. “A few years ago I visited Scandinavia and I found this place.”

He lays back and makes a pillow out of his arms.

“How long were you there?”

“Sweden? A couple of years or so.”

“So you weren’t just visiting,” Sam comments, an amused grin tilting his mouth. He takes Gabriel’s cue and leans back as well, looking up at the sky with a peaceful border of pine trees.

They spend a happy hour or two there quietly enjoying or at least tolerating each other’s company before the cliff crumbles under them. When they come crashing back to reality, Dean’s face greets them for the second time that day.

“Come on, Sammy,” he mumbles, sliding his foot out from under the leg of Sam’s chair. The circles under his eyes are awfully deep for someone who sleeps for a living. This job is taking a lot out of everyone, though, and Dean’s not the worst off.

Sam pulls out his line and Gabriel gives him a flat expression and a shrug. Then he’s going back under, probably to practice his impressions or spend some more time in the Lapland or something. And if he does, I can’t blame him, Sam thinks as he opens his laptop at his desk and opens the web browser and types in “richard roman”.

He’s already gone through about 95% of the info in the past few weeks but from what he can pick up, this guy’s been trained. He needs to know as much as he can about Roman so they can navigate his mind and actually pull this thing off.

Thing is, Sam isn’t even sure if what they’re trying to pull off is actually possible. Dean seems convinced that it is and Castiel seems cautiously hopeful, but this is… this is the kind of thing Dad was trying to do.  
This is the kind of thing that got Dad killed.

Sam closes his eyes and rubs vigorously at them behind the lids. He’s had that conversation with Dean more times than he can count, and each time Dean’s message has been exactly the same: Yeah, well, we’re not Dad, Sammy.

Sam’s also printed out a stack of papers about as tall as he is for Gabriel. They’re all about Edgar, Roman’s right-hand man, so that when the time comes Gabriel can turn into him and do something-or-other and… well, they haven’t really planned that part yet. They haven’t planned most of it, because they all know in the backs of their minds they’re planning their death march, their walk to the guillotine. Who in their right mind plots their last hurrah, how they’re going to go down? Not Sam, and apparently not the rest of Team Free Will.

His pen scratches against the notebook.

:::: :::: :::: ::::

“So basically, all we have on Roman is that he’s a giant douchebag.”

Dean wheels a whiteboard over to his half-circle of compadres. Across the top the words OPERATION: GANK THIS MOTHER have been crossed out and replaced with OPERATION: GET DICK and Dean’s now in the process of wiping that off with his sleeve. Gabriel snickers behind his hand from his seat next to Sam.

“Gabriel, I swear to god if you don’t pull yourself to-“

“Oh, I hear you loud and clear, big boy.”

Bobby coughs impatiently and shoots Dean a matching glare.

“Well, first I’d say let’s start with any family ties,” he supplies, and everyone listens because this is Bobby, and he’s been in the business since way before any of them were even conceived, “but it looks like that road’s a dead end.”

“What about Sucrocorp?” Sam interjects. “Maybe if we put some doubt in his head, like everyone’s out to get him, then we could confuse him enough to break the chain?”

Dean shakes his head sharply, rapping the pen against the whiteboard.

“Naw, if anyone threatened mutiny he’d just make sure they got into a freak accident,” he says.

When the group pauses in thought Sam can almost hear how vast the warehouse is. Oil drips from the ceiling in a far corner and provides a metronome for his thoughts and minutes pass unconsciously. Somewhere in his mind he can feel everyone’s thoughts bumping up against each other. They could power a city for days, a town for hours. In a dream they could go for years.

“Wait.”

Four pairs of eyes snap to Sam. This had better be good, he tells himself.

“What if we sent him to Limbo?” he suggests, palms sweating. He’s waiting for approval but he’s done the calculations, he already knows that there’s no other option and this is the one. Dean blinks at him, lips moving silently as he works out the same math as Sam had.

“We can’t do that,” Bobby says flatly. “We’d need… we’d need the human equivalent of an elephant tranquilizer to be able to get deep enough and even if we can find one who knows if we’ll get out alright?”

“We might not have that sedative,” starts Dean, head down and dangerous, “but we have a guy who’s made it once before.”

“Well, enlighten me, because unless you’re thinking of getting Crowley up here again I don’t-“

“Oh, you know.”

Now four pairs of eyes turn to Bobby, pinned like a deer in the headlights and looking older than he’d ever seemed.

“Dean, this is not the way to do things,” he sighs, sagging wearily in his chair. “Your dad-“

“And since when am I my dad?”

“Don’t you take that tone with me, boy.”

The tone in question is not the same tone Dean uses with Sam. With Sam, they are equals with the same amount of experience, the same background. Sam’s always looked up to Dean, and Dean always protects his baby brother. With Bobby, the disparity is clear. Bobby’s seen every level there is, every dream imaginable. He’s sent people down and pulled them out and even been pulled out himself. Dean, though, has something to prove, with his fifteen years up against the older chemist’s forty-five.

“Bobby, you know there’s no other way to do this,” Sam says hurriedly before anyone hurts themselves. Dean holds his gaze but his jaw stops clenching.

Castiel, who hasn’t said anything throughout this whole thing, twitches uncomfortably before speaking.

“Sam’s right,” he says. “To act on any presumption of humanity would be… unwise.”

This seems to validate Dean’s point, and finally the argument between him and Bobby dissipates.

“Well, I can’t say I’m happy with this,” Bobby grumbles, letting them know that even though he agreed to their plan he wasn’t happy with their decision. But he doesn’t argue or protest any further, and Sam thanks god for small victories.

:::: :::: :::: ::::

A few years ago Dean and Sam had gone on a job alone, with no help from Bobby. They had no set team yet, and they had been commissioned by another half-group who needed a good point man and extractor on short notice. It wasn’t exactly the help-wanted section, but it looked legit.

They should never have trusted them in the first place.

Against his better judgment Sam had fallen hook, line, and sinker for the dark-haired architect. Even when Dean began to get suspicious and wanted out, Sam wouldn’t let the two of them leave. And when the time came to do the honors…

They should have been wary from the start. It was only a one-leveler, but they used a sedative, and there had been no chemist on the premises. So many things that should have triggered a red flag, and Sam had ignored them in favor of Ru- the forger, the forger.

The floor plan was simple: a suburban cul-du-sac late in the evening. The mark’s subconscious was only slightly wary, but not militarized by any stretch of the imagination. The architect had ushered them into one of the houses quietly, and that was when Dean pointed out that they were missing one of group.

Sam shot down Dean’s remark as soon as it left his mouth. Dean, you’ve been pushing against us this whole time, would it kill you to go along with it for once? And in a single-file line, the three entered the house. That’s when a brick came flying through the window.

“Oh god,” Sam remembers the architect whispering. “Run.”

They shot up the stairs as the front door flew from its hinges, letting the mob spill in. Bullets peppered the air and one grazed Sam’s shoulder but nothing made any serious contact. Nothing enough to kill them.

They’d fled to an empty room and shut the door, pushing a bookcase in front of it to hold back the flood of subconscious. Sam had looked out the window then, and there was an ocean of people on the lawn and in the street, all out to kill them. Militarized, Sam mocked himself disgustedly, how could I have missed that?

“Lilith, get us the hell out,” Dean had demanded, placing a hand threateningly at her throat. “Get us out or we tell Azazel about this whole job.”

But the architect just smiled at him.

“Can’t do much if you’re dead.”

But it wasn’t her voice. Sam would know, he recognized this one; it had moaned against his sweat-slick neck and muttered endearments into his mouth. It screamed his name on an almost-nightly basis.  
He remembered it with dark hair and black eyes.

“Ruby?” Sam gasped. She winked at him and pushed the bookcase away from the door just as the audio cue started playing.

All he remembers after that, in the haze of awakening, is Dean shouting as projections tore his limbs to shreds and made Swiss cheese of his torso. He remembers jolting awake and grabbing at Dean’s shoulders, next to him on the cot, and trying to shake him awake as the tape played.

“Don’t you cry no more-“

A week later he brought Dean’s more-or-less comatose body to Bobby’s. They knew there was no way to wake him up without going into Limbo themselves and after what had happened to John, there was no way they were going to risk it. Limbo was bad. It was empty. It did things to you.

So for months Dean laid on a cot in Bobby’s basement. Sam tried to replicate the job that had cost him his brother but whenever he got to the dying part, he’d wake up. He went back to Bobby almost weekly for a stronger sedative but there came a point where Bobby refused to make any more for him. Dean was as good as dead, but Sam didn’t want to put him down or anything. It wouldn’t have been fair to the brother that had raised him when their own dad did a shitty job of it. So he just gave up.

Then Castiel had come along.

A scruffy, dark-haired man in a trench coat with an oddly outdated way of speaking, like he’d just flown in from the early nineteen-hundreds. There was no way he could retrieve Dean, Sam had thought hopelessly. But he’d hooked him up to the PASIV anyway, attached another line to Dean, and left them there.

A month later there was knocking at the door to the house, and Dean’s voice yelling, “Hey, Sammy, would it kill you to let me back in?”

:::: :::: :::: ::::

Water crashes against the sides of the ship. Castiel, sitting cross-legged, sketches a series of passageways leading through the decks.

“If we create pockets on either side of the ship,” he says slowly, eyebrows knitting together, “that will allow charges to be placed at either port or starboard, leaving the option of moving to the opposite side if projections begin to converge on one.”

He adds a ladder.

:::: :::: :::: ::::

“Great. How exactly do we find our way around this place now?”

Castiel shows him his sketches. Covering his nose to sneeze, he reconsiders the privet hedges. Hopefully he’s the only one allergic.

“Memorize this.”

“Oh,” says Dean after a moment of pause, blinking dumbly. A man in a red sweater pushes past them, flying a kite, and disappears into the maze again.

:::: :::: :::: ::::

Gabriel flicks a lightswitch. Nothing happens.

“Nice place,” he remarks with a smirk. A potted plant lays brown and lifeless on the front desk.

“Yeah, but it’s harder to move around if the place is run-down,” Sam points out, carefully stepping around a pile of broken glass. Gabriel shrugs.

“Appearance is kind of my forte, Sambo.”

He snaps his fingers and the lights flicker on.

:::: :::: :::: ::::

They have no way to get to Roman mentally. Sam’s looked through all the info the world has to offer one him and it barely skims the surface. Bobby’s only made the sedative once and even then, it was definitely nothing he’d ever bet the lives of himself and four others on. But to top it all off, they didn’t even know when or how this thing was going to get done.

“Any scheduled plane trips?”

“None in the next twelve months.”

“Any train trips, then.”

“He doesn’t use trains, buses, taxi cabs, nothing.”

“Balls. Well, then… any doctor’s appointments? Any surgeries, anything they’d have to put him under for?”

“No, he doesn’t… well. He doesn’t seem to go to the doctor, either.”

Bobby drags a hand down his tired face. How they’re going to get Roman alone is beyond him. At this point he’d usually say it’s time to throw in the towel, they’d done their best and that’s what matters in the end, but the truth is, he’d be letting Dean and Sam down if he did that. And letting them down would be letting himself down, breaking the promise he’d made to himself when their father died.

“Perhaps we’re taking the wrong approach,” says Castiel, abandoning the scale model of what is to be level 1 in favor of joining the discussion. “If Roman is keeping such a diligent guard then he has anticipated stealth.”

Dean cranes his neck to look back at him.

“So, Cas, what you’re saying is we need to take a more obvious approach,” he says.

“Yes.”

There’s a beat of silence before Dean slaps his thighs and stands up.

“Well, I’ll go tune up the missus.”

:::: :::: :::: ::::

After five minutes of searching for him Sam finds Gabriel asleep in the curtained-off room with the PASIV humming away gently on the table. He draws his own line and settles into the chair next to him, and after a minute of consideration, he takes the hand closest to him and threads their fingers together.  
“Just can’t get enough of me, can you, Sammy?”

Sam gives one sharp chuckle, sitting next to Gabriel on the ledge. They’re in Norway or whatever again. The snow seeps through the seat of his pants.

“Oh,” Gabriel mutters, snapping his fingers. “Lemme fix that for you.”

Sam’s butt turns a lot less cold, and he breathes a thank-you back. The cold air nips at his nose and turns his breath into little clouds but otherwise, he’s warm enough. Gabriel wears the same clothes he’d worn back in reality plus a red plaid scarf. It matches Sam’s shirt.

“You know, you never told me why you came here,” says Sam. “You said you’d lived here for a couple of years.”

“I wanted to get away,” Gabriel answers shortly. Then he raises his eyebrows. “This seemed pretty ‘away’.”

“Yeah, no kidding.”

Sam exhales, watching anther breath-cloud form and dissipate.

“Get away from what?” he asks, because he’s sort of an expert on getting away from things. Say, for example, Dad.

“Let’s just say my family life wasn’t the greatest, kiddo,” Gabriel replies. Sam takes the hint to drop the subject and reclines until his back hits the snow.

Before their time ends, he might have heard a man’s voice say, “I did teach him all his tricks,” or he might have just heard the wind.

:::: :::: :::: ::::

“Dean.”

There’s a dull thump, which is the sound of Dean’s head jerking up and connecting solidly with the underside of the Impala.

“I apologize. Startling you was not my intention.”

“I’ll live, Cas, don’t get your panties in a knot,” Dean grumbles, sliding out from under his car. His forehead is an angry pink from where he’d hit it. “So what’jyou need, another level or-“

Castiel blinks and that’s all it takes to silence him. It takes Dean a practiced second to read his face.

“Come on, Cas, you’re not scared,” he scoffs lightly. “Are you?”

No answer, which is more of an answer than anything. Dean sighs and drags an oily hand across his forehead, leaving a black smear behind. He doesn’t really know what to say, but then again, he’s a Winchester. They’re not exactly well-known for rousing speeches. So Dean gives him what he hopes is his most determined, matter-of-fact expression.

“Listen to me, Cas,” he says, looking Castiel dead in the eye. “We’ve done hundreds of jobs. Me and Sammy, we were trained to do this.”

“You were trained,” Castiel interjects in a voice that is impossibly immovable and ancient, “to steal thoughts and leave. This is the first time you’ve ever factored death into your equation.”

“What, you think we’re not going to come out the other end?”

Everything in the room goes still as Castiel takes Dean by the front of his shirt and slams him into the wall behind him. Bottles and cans rattle on the shelves above them more with the force of Castiel’s anger than with the force of Dean’s back hitting the wall.

“I’m afraid you’re not going to come out the other end,” he breathes, face so close to Dean’s that they can each taste the other’s breath. It would be damn sexy if they were discussing anything other than the prospect of death. “I’ve pulled you out once but if you think I can pull you out a second time while we’re both heavily sedated and three levels deep I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

Ah.

“Cas,” Dean tries, placing a hand around one of the wrists near his throat. “I made you a promise. If you rise, I rise.”

“And if you fall, I fall,” Castiel finishes, anger draining from his face like piss down the drain. Dean gives him his best cocky grin.

“Damn straight,” Dean says, nodding once as Castiel’s grip loosens. He accepts the dark-haired man into his arms as he falls forward against Dean’s chest.

“Shh, shh,” he whispers. “Winchesters may be stupid but we don’t go breaking our promises.”

:::: :::: :::: ::::

The next day, Sam goes looking for Gabriel, hoping to find him asleep so they can share a dream. When he pushes through the curtain there’s no Gabriel in sight but there’s a yellow sticky note on the chair he usually sleeps in.

Hey, Samsquatch. I’ve gone out for a bit to catch some sun, but have at it ;)

Pointedly ignoring the winky-face Sam musters the little he knows about building and some college memories and draws a line from the PASIV.

When he opens his eyes again he’s crossing a street in front of a bus stopped to pick up passengers.

Across the road is a Chinese restaurant and a motel with a picture of a mermaid for a logo. He’s walked here often, partly because there’s a place that has really good Japanese for dirt cheap and because it’s right by a fairly large bookstore.

Someone puts their small hand on his shoulder and he spins, but instead of a stranger he comes face-to-face with a young blonde woman wearing a white sundress.

“Jess,” Sam breathes.

“Hey, Sam,” she says, smiling. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

:::: :::: :::: ::::

The whiteboard is back front –and-center. Under OPERATION: GANK THIS MOTHER are the words “full speed ahead” underlined three times in red.

“So I was rooting around for some stickies or calendar items that mention trips and stuff on Roman’s computer,” a female voice chirps from Sam’s laptop, open on a table next to the board.

“And?”

“Yeah,” the voice mumbles dejectedly, “no dice. But I did go snooping in his phone and look what came up.”

She hits something on her end and a new window appears with the words “4th floor East, 2:30, 12th Fri.”. Sam scribbles it down in his notebook and the screen switches back. The redheaded woman is admiring a poster of Scarlett Johansson as Black Widow pinned to the wall behind her next to a cardboard cutout of River Song.

“Got it,” Sam says, and the lady starts and spins back to face the group.

“Not a problem, my bitches,” she says with a toothy grin. “So… need anything else, or…?”

“Not right now, Charlie, thanks.”

“‘Kay. Live long and prosper.”

Charlie flashes the Vulcan salute and the screen blinks black. Dean comes up to the front, closing Sam’s laptop, and writes the message on the board.

“Gentlemen, the date has been set,” Gabriel remarks, leaning back in his chair and resting his feet against the back of Sam’s. “You want to make a splash, and boy, do we have ourselves a big one.”

:::: :::: :::: ::::

With the job in less than a week, the warehouse is even messier than usual. Castiel’s models sit on tables, hang from the walls, and generally take up every inch of workspace that hasn’t already been claimed by Sam’s research. Dean’s more or less keeping to himself, which means if he isn’t drawing out plans and diagrams he’s out working on his car. Bobby’s mixing chemicals and poring over his old notes from ‘05, also known as The Last Ride of John Winchester. Gabriel has rather taken to testing his impressions on other members of the team, to their delight (Castiel and sometimes, when the planets align, Sam) or chagrin (Dean and Bobby.) And Sam spends his time popping ibuprofen.

He’s skimming an article about Roman’s second-in-command when a sharp pain shoots through him, right behind his left eye. Another orange capsule downed with lukewarm Starbucks. It keeps the headache at bay for a good six hours until it’s time for them to pack it in for the day, but Dean’s noticed because he’s the big brother and he has ESP for these kinds of things.

“You doing okay, Sammy?” he asks, catching Sam’s shoulder as he’s putting his laptop in his bag.

“What? Yeah, yeah, sure.”

He can’t tell if Dean’s satisfied by that answer but if he isn’t, he doesn’t press. And Sam’s headache doesn’t look like it’s coming back yet, which is good.

But he can’t for the life of him get Stairway to Heaven out of his head.

:::: :::: :::: ::::

Bobby’s wheeled himself up to the bookcase and he’s looking through old notebooks when he comes across one that he doesn’t recognize. His first thought is You’re going senile, forgetting whole notebooks but then he takes a closer look at the cover.

JOURNAL, it says, PROPERTY OF JOHN WINCHESTER.

He sighs and goes on looking.

:::: :::: :::: ::::

Sam spends much of the next few days under, hanging out with Jess. They don’t really have much to catch up on, since how do you catch up with someone who’s been dead for five years, but Sam enjoys his time with her as much as he had when she was still alive.

They go out for Japanese, and she scratches at a spot on her temple until the skin peels.

:::: :::: :::: ::::

The day after that they walk down the same street. Jess spends a lot of time scratching at her face until Sam expresses his worry. The next time he sees her, her face is dotted with band-aids.

They go out for Polish, and Sam swears he knows their waiter from somewhere. Jess smiles and calls him to their table.

“Excuse me,” she says, “but I can’t really place your accent. Is it… Polish…?”

“Hungarian,” the waiter answers, putting extra emphasis on the “hung” part and winking at Sam.

:::: :::: :::: ::::

Oh god, they’re not prepared, when the twelfth rears its ugly head. But Dean says they’ve done all they can and hey, the Impala’s fixed up and it’s now or never and now is certainly better than never in the long run.

Sucrocorp’s headquarters is a huge steely building with floor-to-ceiling windows all around. Which is actually pretty great.

The Impala bursts through the front in a rain of glass. The group gets out, hands ghosting across their guns, when they notice there’s nobody in the lobby.

“Huh,” says Dean. “Well, nowhere to go but up, right?”

He means, of course, the elevator to the fourth floor. Now there’s someone, a random employee who must not have been in the know. Sam knocks him out with a sharp punch to the head and scans each floor as they pass. As far as he can tell, it’s completely vacant.

Ping.

The little number four lights up and the doors open. Dean, Sam, Castiel, Gabriel, and Bobby step out and walk (or roll, whatever, Bobby) in a straight row to the east hallway. All the office doors are shut and locked and nobody’s in any of the cubicles. The group is silent as well, moving wordlessly down the hall like heroes on an action movie poster. Which is bullshit, Sam thinks, because they’ve seen plenty of explosions and he’s never not looked at one while running away screaming. Um.

The conference room is in sight, straight ahead at the end of the east hallway. Dean stops them and makes a motion that either means get behind me or isn’t it fun to swim with one arm?

They clump behind him, backs to each other and their guns are out for real now, anticipating an ambush as they clear the last thirty feet to the door. They make it and stay an extra few seconds, stock-still with weapons poised, but no one comes.

Dean kicks the door handle and the door swings open, never locked in the first place. Still, there’s nobody in the room.

Nobody but Roman.

He’s standing at the end of the conference table with his hands to either side of him. He’s been waiting for them.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” he confirms with a uniform uninflected tone and in-which-universe-does-that-count-as-a-smile. Dean swallows hard, gun still raised.

“Roman.”

“Please. Dick.”

His face doesn’t change at all but somehow a new evil glint picks up in his eyes, or he tilts his face. Either way, it’s right up there with clowns and midgets.

He comes around the side of the table, gesturing to all the empty chairs.

“You’ve got something for me,” he says, pointing to the PASIV. “In any other circumstances I would have to kill you but you’ve intrigued me with your entrance so by all means-“

He tilts his head in invitation, offering his wrist to Sam.

This is their plan, right, so they should be hooking him up and commencing step one. But Sam, who’s unofficially in charge of the PASIV, shoots Dean a look. They weren’t supposed to be anticipated. I mean, sure, they had come crashing through the building like a sonofagun, but they were supposed to, you know, swiftly deal with the innocents and hack their way up to the final boss. Dick shouldn’t be smiling at them, for fuck’s sake.

Dean hazards a glance at Dick and gives Sam a nod. Dick sits down and Sam runs the first line into a vein in his wrist as everyone else sits down and pulls their own. Sam’s the last one to go under.

:::: :::: :::: ::::

When he opens hi s eyes again Sam is faced with the most immediate danger of having a mark who knows exactly what’s going on.

His head is jerked up by the hair and he twists, trying to free himself from the grip, but it doesn’t give. Whether or not it’s a projection is a mystery to him but he does know that if he doesn’t get out, he’s screwed. Suddenly there’s a handgun in his pocket and he takes care of his attacker and the other two in the room.

If he remembers correctly, Dean and Cas are supposed to be on top deck, tracking down Dick, but there’s no telling where Dick is now that they know he knows. And Gabriel’s somewhere in a metal storage container getting his act ready but again, Dick knows what’s going on, so that plan’s shot. And Bobby’s supposed to stay on a lower deck. That means he’s most likely on second with Sam, trying to get up to where everyone else is.

Sam tries the door only to find it locked, but that’s never stopped a Winchester before. He kicks it down and pulls his handgun again, even though he can barely see down the hall. But everyone’s pretty familiar with the layout and they know Castiel’s patterns like the backs of their hands.

“So do I, Sam.”

Sam ignores it and soon he runs into- literally runs into- Bobby as he’s shooting down the hall and disposing of projections as quietly as he can. He almost knocks him over, and when he helps him back to his feet he notices just what he’s doing- helping him back to his feet.

“Where’s your chair?” he asks, bracing himself and preparing to heave Bobby over his shoulder and take off in search of the wheelchair, but Bobby grunts.

“We’re dreaming, son, I’m not exactly restricted by that right now.”

Oh. Yeah. Sam totally knew that. But their little moment of peace is interrupted by a projection aiming a goddamn bazooka down the hallway, and they can’t destroy the ship yet. Fuck, who came up with a setting they’d have to protect as well as themselves? Bobby whips out a shotgun and takes the guy out before he has a chance to blow anything up. Then they’d really be screwed.

“Militarized,” Bobby grumbles. “Figures.”

But now they have to go find Dean and Cas and Gabriel and set up an emergency plan. They hadn’t counted on this. They’d figured it would be dangerous as hell but they didn’t think they’d get to the violent projections until level two at the earliest.

Sam tucks his gun in his belt loop, not thinking to imagine up a holster or anything. Bobby’s smart enough to keep his shotgun tucked in his armpit as they barrel up a narrow set of steps and into the rain. Castiel’s impartial to rain; he says if the ground is wet it makes the projections more likely to slide around, provides one more hazard for them. But this isn’t just a hazard to the projections, it makes Sam and Bobby (who isn’t all that used to walking, thank you very much) trip on the rungs of ladders and slow their running pace on the slick blacktop.

“Duck!”

Sam’s still squinting in the light when Bobby places a hand on the back of his neck and shoves them both to the ground. Beside them a crate explodes, showering them with shrapnel from the blast, but nothing breaks their skin except for a couple of splinters than Sam quickly yanks out. He sees the projection that blew up the crate duck behind a partition and he yells before running towards it and shooting.

No dice. He thinks up a grenade and pops it over the wall, diving back to where Bobby’s still squatting and covering his head with his jacket as a hail of pebbles erupt from where the projection once hid.

They’re both breathing sort of heavily, Sam due to nerves—he’s been doing this since he was ten, but where Dean’s gotten used to the danger and even embraces it, Sam’s wary—and Bobby due to the fact he hasn’t run that hard since the eighties. But they can’t stop to rest because they need to find Dean and Castiel and Gabriel, and since the plan isn’t exactly going swimmingly they don’t know where they are right now.

“Dean and Cas said they’d be up here somewhere,” Sam says, running a hand through his shaggy hair.

“And Gabriel’s in one of those.”

He points to an array of large metal containers to their side. Bobby nods briefly and starts off towards them with Sam close behind.

Two of the containers are badly dented, sharp angles jutting outwards. There’s the faint sound of shouting and gunfire and the dull thuds of bodies hitting the floor. Sam presses himself flush against the side of the container, gesturing for Bobby to do the same, but a red dot keeps running across his face.  
Sam’s jaw tightens and he pushes Bobby in the shoulder, and the dot follows him when he goes down, on his stomach briefly before flicking back up to the middle of his forehead.

“What the hell was—!”

Sam shushes him and Bobby seems to get it. His eyes scan the tops of the structures, looking for snipers or other violent projections. There, to the leftmost building, a tripod of sorts and a person laying on their belly, keeping the laser trained on Bobby’s head. They can’t fire from here, though, without alerting other projections, and otherwise it wouldn’t be an issue, but right now they’re waiting for Gabriel to come out and if it’s a projection instead… well, then they’re über-screwed.

A second dot join the one between Bobby’s eyes. Sam can see a second projection sidle up next to the first with their own sniper rifle. Are they waiting for orders or what…? Something hits the container from inside, jostling Sam’s head and making his ears ring. Something is angry and fighting.

“Come on, ya idjit…” Bobby growls from his spot next to Sam. The lasers are dancing around his face, moving to his eyes and back to his forehead, then to either of his temples.

BANG.

The door to the container flies open and a warm body throws itself to the ground by the two of them.

“Plug your ears,” it says, “and duck.”

Suddenly the spot where the projections had been is a mess of fire and flying concrete and mangled bits of building. Sam turns to Gabriel, two parts grateful to one part incredulous.

“Was that a mortar round?”

“Maybe,” Gabriel replies with a wink, but yeah, he does see it briefly before Gabriel swings it up over his shoulder. It got the job done, that’s for sure. And if Bobby’s at all glad to have the target off his back… well, forehead, he’s not saying anything to prove it.

“Where the hell are Dean and Cas?” he asks, looking like he’s this close to throttling the smaller man if he doesn’t cough up answers. Gabriel shrugs.

“Can’t say I’ve seen much of them, since I just spent the past half-hour fighting my way through metal boxes.”

He’s right, and Bobby makes a displeased noise. He’s not too fond of Gabriel, and neither is Dean, but fuck if he isn’t the best forger they’ve had in years, so they put up with him. But just barely.

“Don’t get your panties in a twist, Samsquatch, we’ll find them,” says Gabriel, touching Sam’s shoulder even though it’s almost a full arm’s reach away. Sam hadn’t even noticed he was making a face. Dean always tells him he looks constipated when he’s thinking too hard, and he wills the expression away. But right now there’s… well. There’s a black wall growing by the front of the ship.

“Guys.”

Bobby turns to Sam, who’s pointing to a black wall growing by the front of the ship.

“What do… what do you think we should do,” says Sam dumbly. It’s not even a question.

“Well, I’d say that when a gang of incredibly violent projections know where you are and are congregating to kill you, the logical thing to do is run like fuck.”

:::: :::: :::: ::::

It would sure be great if they weren’t surrounded right now. Also, Dean could kill for a bacon cheeseburger. But mostly it would be great if they weren’t surrounded.

“It would be a great deal better for us at this present moment,” says Castiel levelly, as if reading the thoughts straight from Dean’s head, “if the two of us were not surrounded.”

“Yeah, you’re telling me,” Dean replies, brandishing his newly-thinked-up machete at the projections while keeping his back to Castiel’s. The things are clearly from the rejects pile, or the zoo. They’ve got teeth, great pointy razor-sharp teeth that look more made to tear human flesh to shreds, pirrhana-style, than to chew vegetables. Or bacon cheeseburgers.

One breaks the circle to lunge at Dean, hissing and spitting and latching itself onto his arm with no intention to back off until Dean lops its head off. A small shriek tears from its throat until the knife severs its vocal chords and then it falls to the floor in two bloody pieces.

“Yeah, you want some of that?” Dean taunts, showing the projections the blade and putting his other arm protectively against Castiel’s side. “‘Cause I can do this all day. There’s plenty to go around.”

Another one comes at them, this time on Castiel’s side, and they spin together so that Dean can jump in and with a sick whack of the knife behead it. The wound in his arm is an oval of deep teeth marks, and painful as hell, but not as painful as, say, getting torn to confetti by these mutant things. Castiel has… lately, he’s become more of a pacifist, about since Sam’s been getting his headaches. Which amounts to Castiel being reluctant to kill anyone, even projections.

“Heads up!”

Suddenly there’s a ball of fire coming straight towards them. Dean dives out of the way, tugging Castiel down under him, but the projections are either the kamikaze sort or just too stupid to get out of the way.

They fall to the ground around the two in piles of smoldering flesh.

Dean hazards to stick his head up, scanning their surroundings for more projections, but instead he sees three familiar figures bounding up the tiny set of stairs.

“God, Dean, what the hell?” Sam gasps, going all mother-hen and running over to where Dean and Castiel are laying and rolling them over to check for injuries.

“I’m fine, Sammy,” Dean assures him, more to get him off of him than anything else. If either of them were hurt it would have been Dean, he’s made sure of that in the way he’s got Castiel covered entirely. This is more a testament to the invalidity of his harsh exterior than anything else, but it also means he likes Castiel a whole damn lot. Sam checks Castiel for injuries as well though because if he knows anything at all he knows how their whole group is about hiding their own wounds and going apeshit over the others’.

“I believe I’m unharmed as well,” says Castiel, brushing the dirt off his clothing. Dean’s eyes skim over him once more, just to make sure, though.

“Yeah, you idjits better be,” grumbles Bobby good-naturedly. “Now what? We don’t know where Roman is, our plan is screwed to hell-“

“Maybe it isn’t.”

The group looks at Dean like he’s grown a second head (that’s not weird enough for them, maybe a third or fourth).

“It’s not?” Bobby repeats, screwing up his face in incredulity. “Boy, am I hearing you right?”

“You’re hearing me just fine,” Dean says. Then he runs a hand through his short hair and sighs. “See, we’re planning on ganking the dude, right? Subtlety wasn’t exactly part of the equation. So let’s go the next couple of levels down and finish the job, then wait for the kick.”

“Yeah, that’s all fine and dandy, but how many of us are you expecting to make it out of here?”

A guilty silence falls over them as they sense the other shoe hitting the ground. They get started figuring out who to pick off in their minds, but nobody gets far.

“If we’re lucky? Four,” Dean answers finally. He looks like he’s trying not to let the answer kill him. “Look, I’m sorry, you guys, but we’re already knee-deep in this and we can’t get out without some of us staying down. So I say we find Dick Roman and you guys go ahead and I’ll stay here to detonate the charges below deck when it’s time. And don’t do anything too stupid without me.”

“Hold your horses,” Bobby cuts in before Sam has a chance to protest. “I’ve been in this business the longest. I’m slowest, I’m the most disposable, and before any of you idjits try and argue with me I’m not taking no for an answer so you’d best save your energy.”

Dean looks down, trying to figure out some way to both not argue with Bobby and persuade him against his decision. Nothing doing. Castiel, though, is the only one to speak for a long time.

“Thank you,” he tells him in the reserved, respectful way of his. “We’ll go and locate Roman so you can have the time you need to place the charges.”

And he all but drags the remaining three below deck.

:::: :::: :::: ::::

Dick has a thing for making himself readily available to them, no pun intended.

… I take that back, actually, pun fully intended.

But the point is he either has a death wish or he knows something they don’t and he’s just having a marvelous time fucking with them.

Pun intended, again.

He’s not even pretending to hide, he’s standing on the last rung of the ladder with his arms outstretched to welcome them. And they’re past being completely freaked the fuck out, they’re trying to figure out just what it is that he knows and they don’t. Or maybe he’s being tricky, maybe they know it but he’s making it seem like there’s something to know when there actually isn’t-

Sam’s overthinking this.

“Hello again, boys,” Dick greets them with his plaster smile. “Did you get lost? I’m not surprised, Castiel here seems good at designing these.”

Dean steps sideways, putting a foot in front of Castiel as a warning of sorts, to Roman, not to Cas.

There’s a raised eyebrow at the possessive gesture but nothing else, and Dean keeps himself pitched forward. He can imagine up some sort of a weapon, a club or a knife, in a millisecond, a gun in two. Sam can make a set of machine guns for the whole group in that time.

Roman sighs at them, dropping his arms slowly to brush off his suit, which he’s retained going into the dream state.

“A little bird told me you boys are taking me deeper.”

He puts a hand to his sleeve, letting it linger there for a few seconds to tease them. Dean hears Bobby mutter something angry under his breath, the only one not shell-shocked into speechlessness.

“Below deck’s safer, am I right, Castiel?” he asks, and Dean’s jaw clenches. If he had it his way, he would have killed Roman long before now, or maybe he would still be in the process of killing him, long and slow and painful. But he can only brush Dick aside and lead the way down the ladder, pausing to check for more projections. Dick seems to have called them off for now- Dean wonders in the back of his mind how fucked up you have to be for your subconscious to be conscious.

:::: :::: :::: ::::

In this level, it’s a Tuesday.

Castiel knows this because he remembers it. He was just out of high school, walking through a park after graduation (still with his cap in hand and his gown folded away into his backpack) when he realized he was the only one in the park, save for an old man flying a kite.

It was dreadfully lonely. Nobody likes to spend their day feeling like the population had been wiped out and they’re the one survivor. Unless they have some sort of messiah complex, which Castiel doesn’t, but even then, they would need to have at least a few people to save. But I digress.

Castiel is pretty much screwed. So is everyone else, but Cas most of all because he’s the one who fucking came up with this shit and if the mark’s got it all figured out than they’re all screwed to hell and if the group wasn’t practically all brothers-in-law they’d have killed each other long ago to get it over with.

But there’s the matter of the sedative. If they bail now, they’re stuck in limbo for the rest of their existences unless someone waltzes over and pulls them out, and that’s if Roman hasn’t waited it out and slit their throats yet. See, that’s the shits.

Next to him, Gabriel yawns.

“Well, gotta find Dick now, hmm?” he says conversationally, slinging a suddenly-materialized bazooka over his back. Cas aches for a smoke. He’s definitely asleep.

:::: :::: :::: ::::

They’ve never quite gotten the level-jumping thing down, Dean and Sam. They can do the dream-stuff like professionals, picking where to land and when and wearing what and such, but it’s the actual materializing in the level that’s got them stumped.

Sam’s trying to disentangle their legs as they hit the ground with a heavy thud.

“Dude, we’re gonna get ambushed if we make too much noise,” he hisses, wrenching his leg away.

“Oh, well, I’m so sorry.”

They finally figure it out, smoothing their wrinkled clothes and drawing weapons and trying to remember what Castiel’s plans were.

“So we head over there-” Dean gestures vaguely to a cluster of pine trees in the far distance- “and that’s where Cas and Gabriel should be.”

“Yeah, but they’re on Dick-finding duty,” Sam reminds him, purposefully ignoring the wording, though Dean allows himself a snicker. “We bring him to the fountain-“

“Wait wait wait, a fountain?”

“In the middle of the maze,” says Sam. “Ah. Ouch.”

A dull throb starts behind his left eye and he squints through the sudden pain. It’s manageable, but just barely; it’s worse than his previous headaches, more concentrated and sudden.

“Hey.”

Dean takes his shoulders and tries to meet his eyes.

“Sammy?”

But as soon as it came, it’s gone again. Honestly? Sam doesn’t know what hit him.

… and she’s buying a stairway to heaven…

:::: :::: :::: ::::

Bobby doesn’t quite know where to place the charges, mostly because Castiel hadn’t gotten the time to show everyone, but he knew which side of the ship they would be on and he knew that there were little niches scattered throughout the lower decks for the explosives. Getting used to being on his own two legs again, he blasts a hole in a projection’s chest with his shotgun and goes to work.

When he’s finished, he pulls up a crate to sit on, gun resting in his lap.

Bobby Singer gets shit done.

:::: :::: :::: ::::

“So, little bro, you must have some idea where we’re headed,” Gabriel drawls, imagining up a lollipop. Perhaps he can bother Sam with it later, if they find him before it’s finished. Probably not.

Castiel makes a noncommittal sound in the back of his throat, continuing on the path through the maze. Either he’s memorized his plans entirely and knows exactly where they’re going, or he’s completely lost and doesn’t want to acknowledge it. Knowing Cas, it could be either of the two, but he’s also the best architect Gabriel’s ever met, so he’s more inclined to think they’re going in the right direction. Dammit, Cas, why’d you have to make this a fucking maze?

But they slowly make their way to the center.

And that’s where the projections are.

Castiel hasn’t had time to make a weapon, and even if he had, he probably wouldn’t use it. And Gabriel sure wasn’t going to fend off twenty-plus projections with a lollipop.

Suddenly a weight falls into his hands, even though he hadn’t created anything. Thanks, kiddo, he thinks, and mows the projections down with his shiny new machine gun.

Sam and Dean burst through the hedge on the far side, ten projections on their tail. Gabriel may or may not have clipped Dean’s leg but if he did, it was by accident, really. When the metaphorical smoke clears, there’s projections all over the ground, oozing black goo from bullet wounds.

“That’s just lovely,” says Dean, articulating Gabriel’s thoughts exactly. “Now what do we do about Dick?”

“Well, Deano, you’re quite familiar with it.”

“Oh, be quiet.”

“Not gonna deny it?”

They’re both too old for this. So is Sam, and so is Castiel. And so are all the rpojections that have just decided to make themselves known. They push through Castiel’s meticulously-architectured hedges, much quicker than the zombies in the Thriller music video and a million times as menacing. Really? It’s a miracle that everyone’s lasted as long as they have.

But Cas’s got a little something-something up his sleeve.

“I’d advise you all to take a step back,” he says, extending his arms Jesusly as he walks forward to face the projections, “and close your eyes.”

It’s good advice. Even through their eyelids, they see the maze erupt in light.

:::: :::: :::: ::::

It’s quite a difficult thing to do, absorbing projections. You have to sort of manipulate the parts of tangible subconscious that already belong to the mark and take them as your own. And then it’s not like they want to be yours, either; it’s the difference between kidnapping and stealing. Castiel’s good, but they still go kicking and screaming and he feels each one of them carving away at him as they disappear into his chest. When he’s done he feels nauseous but it’s not like he can’t take a little rumbly-in-the-tumbley.

“Gah,” he gasps, knees buckling underneath him a split second after the light clears.

It’s the thousands of souls trying to push out of him that he can’t take.  
:::: :::: :::: ::::

“Cas!”

Dean’s there in a second, catching Castiel by the arm and keeping him from falling face-first into the ground. Jesus fucking Christ, he’s having a goddamn heart attack while Cas’s just staring into space, blood slowly dripping from his mouth and onto the grass.

“Cas,” he repeats, not sure whether or not Castiel can hear him. “Cas, you with me?”  
There’s a numb nod, and Sam looking around, and somewhere there’s a slow clap.

“Nice show,” comes the patronizing voice, and Dick Roman approaches them in his impeccable suit and tie. “Have you two ever considered doing soaps?”

“Get out of here,” growls Dean, turning to look at Dick over his shoulder but still halfway supporting Castiel, shielding him from potential attack after that magnificent display of firepower. “If it hadn’t occurred to you, we’re going to fucking kill you, so shut your piehole and wait your turn.”

Dick looks somewhat pleased, or he would if he could make different facial expressions. If anything, Dean gets even angrier. This fucker made Cas do this, and this fucker will die by Dean’s hands when he gets them around Roman’s arrogant little neck. But Cas only stares into space and drools blood.

“C’mon, little bro,” says Gabriel, who Dean didn’t even notice gripping Cas’s other arm. “Up we go.”

He grunts as he and Dean lift Cas to his unsteady feet, holding him upright before facing Dick.

“You boys can’t kill me,” he says in his eternally-easy tone. “The old-timer tried, bless his heart. I hope you like this place enough.”

“No,” Cas rasps, red bubbling at the corner of his mouth. “We can.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean notices Sam collapse.

:::: :::: :::: ::::

When Sam next becomes aware, he’s not outside. He doesn’t see Dean or Castiel or Dick anywhere, and that… that’s kind of terrifying.

Gabriel’s leaning on the wall opposite him.

“Looks like it’s you and me, kiddo,” he says, raising his eyebrows and looking down the hallway.

Oh.

Oh.

Sam knows this place. Wow. He’d better fucking know this place, because he thought it up. He designed the hallway Gabriel’s looking down. He designed the floor, and the sconces, and the pattern on the walls. He designed this room, and the storage closet next to it, and the bar and all-you-can-eat pie buffet, á la Dean.

He’s designed the Elysian Fields Hotel.

“Alright,” he says. “I know this place. We just gotta… I dunno, we’ll just wait it out.”

“Wait out what, Sammypants?”

Sam runs a hand over his mouth.

“I uh, I don’t know. But Dean and Cas’ll wake us up when they need us.”

Truth be told, he doesn’t even know if they’re asleep, but Gabriel shrugs and a Dum-Dum materializes in his hand.

There are no projections, at least not so far, and Sam really doesn’t want to jinx it when he’s only got one other person with him. Granted, the one other person he’s got is an incredibly talented forger and could probably send a tank or something crashing through the place in a billionth of a second and Sam’s not too shabby himself, but he’d feel a little better if he had Dean or Cas or Bobby or all of them with him, too. But, you know, gotta make do with what you have.

“I think we should t-“

Plucky acoustic guitar wafts through the hallway, and Sam stiffens. He knows this song, because it’s been stuck in his head for the past few weeks. But this time, it’s like it’s coming from the next room, or down another hallway, or something, but it definitely has a direction.

“Uh, follow me,” he tells Gabriel, who raises his eyebrows and pulls the lollipop from his mouth with a pop.

They’re in the main lobby when the music gets louder and more distinct, and Sam’s getting feverish with the way he’s walking briskly and cutting corners. He wants to get to the source of the music; it’s like a sailor drawn to a siren’s song, and he doesn’t know what he’ll accomplish by finding the source but he knows it’ll be something.

“Hold your horses, kiddo.”

Sam stops abruptly and whips around to face Gabriel, whose lollipop is gone and whose eyebrows are scrunched together.

“What exactly are we running around looking for?”

“The music,” Sam replies, and Gabriel’s eyebrows only furrow deeper. “You mean you can’t hear that?”

“No,” says Gabriel, drawing out the word skeptically. “Look, kiddo, we’ve got two brothers up there fighting for their fucking lives against some psychopath businessman.”

“So what, are you saying we’re just supposed to stay here and wait until they’re done?”

“I’m saying we keep ourselves out of trouble until they pull us back up,” Gabriel snaps. “Look, Sam, we’re down here and we don’t even know how, or if we’re even asleep. We don’t know how long it could take to get out or if they can even get us out from their end. So let’s stay here and make sure they don’t end up with a couple of dead brothers on their hands.”

“Oh, that’s so like you,” Sam responds condescendingly. “All this self-preservation crap. You just don’t want to get hurt, or die, is that right?”

Gabriel seethes, but says nothing.

“That’s what I thought.”

Sam’s turned and about to continue onwards when Gabriel finally speaks.

“You know, Sambo, for a guy who went to Stanford, you can be really stupid sometimes.”

It’s enough to make Sam stop but not enough to make him turn around. But he nods, a signal for Gabriel to go on.

“You’re a pretty cool guy, Sam, and it’s hard not to feel like a third wheel when your brother and mine are secretly screwing each other,” he says. “It was the same back at home, with Mike and Luke. Everybody’s got something to do, like clawing out your brother’s eyes, but no room for little ol’ me.”

He sighs heavily, like he’s got the weight of the world on his shoulders. It probably feels like he does. Sam almost feels bad for yelling at him, but it’s teetering on the edge of actual guilt.

“And then Cassy saved your brother, and you guys needed a forger and I came along and prepared myself for feeling useless as always.”

Ouch. Now Sam actually feels guilty. It’s not the most pleasant feeling in the world.

“But it never happened.”

Gabriel raises his eyebrows and smiles wryly.

“It never happened. So I guess I should, you know, thank you for that.”

He shifts awkwardly, something Sam’s never seen him do, and then all at once Sam’s overcome with wow, I should go kiss him right now.

So he approaches Gabriel, clumsily putting his hands on his shoulders, then his cheeks, then his hips, not knowing where to put them when it’s his first kiss with a guy (well, first sober kiss… but that’s a whole ‘nuther story) and leans in. He gets close enough to taste Gabriel’s breath, cotton candy-flavored from the lollipop, when Gabriel stops him.

“Sorry, Samsquatch,” he says apologetically, but a hint of his usual mischief flashes behind his eyes. “Feels too much like a goodbye if we do this now. Wait until we get back, hmm?”

That’s not quite good enough for Sam, but he’ll take the offer, and when they wake up he’s going to pin Gabriel to the dumpy lawn-chair and kiss him senseless. But for now, they need to follow the music. Gabriel smiles up at him, then nods to the lobby, and Sam takes that as his cue to go forth and conquer.

They throw open the doors of the ballroom and the music stops.

:::: :::: :::: ::::

Bobby checks his watch.

He’s only got a few minutes. They’ve got days and weeks.

“Well, this had better be worth it,” he grumbles, but somehow, he knows it will be.

:::: :::: ::: ::::

“So,” Dick says, still smiling. “I’m thinking it’s time to end this game, as fun as it’s been playing hide-and-seek with you.”

“No,” Cas gurgles, throat thick with blood, and Dean shushes him, glaring daggers at Dick. When Sam and Gabriel got back, he’d kill him. He’d run him through with a serrated knife and flay him open and pull out his guts one by one and show them to him as he shreds them to-

Sorry. It’s a habit. Especially when it comes to Cas. Especially when Cas is like this.

“Dean,” tries Cas again, looking up at him. Dick kind of looks the other way and whistles, and Dean thinks I’ll kill you later before he shifts his grip on Cas, holding him steadier, but Cas’s knees are buckling and they’re both sinking to the ground…

Get back soon, Sammy, thinks Dean, holding Cas in his lap.

:::: :::: :::: ::::

“Took you two long enough.”

There’s a tall figure standing in the middle of the room, next to some clothed tables. His eyes are sunken and he’s got flakes of skin peeling from his face and his clothes are kind of dirty but Gabriel stiffens beside Sam and he knows.

The figure smiles at Gabriel, nodding.

“Gabriel,” he says. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

“Luke.”

Gabriel’s jaw clenches and he whispers, “Sam, get back,” and keeps himself in front with an arm extended. Sam feels helpless. He feels like there’s something going on that’s going right over his head, and he doesn’t like it at all. Suddenly he wishes he had kissed Gabriel out in the lobby.

“Sam,” says Gabriel more pointedly. “Get out of here.”

But although Sam’s been rendered speechless, he’s not budging.

“Sam?”

He still doesn’t move, and it seems Gabriel’s given up trying.

“Sam and I’ve become acquainted,” says Luke. “Well, I should say I’ve become acquainted with Sam.”

“How…?” Sam asks, voice refusing to offer more than a word at a time. Luke knocks on his head a couple of times.

“I’ve been hanging out in your noggin for a while, Sam,” he replies easily. “Thought you’d notice.”

And Sam does know. He knows the headaches and the strange music and the random thoughts that come out of nowhere have a source. And now he knows who that source is.

“First things first,” Gabriel says, voice steely. “My brother and I need to have a little chat.”

Luke raises his eyebrows.

“Really, Gabriel?” he asks patronizingly. “You always had strange taste, but… this is a new low. I hope you didn’t catch anything.”

Gabriel rolls his eyes. A dagger materializes in his hand and Luke’s eyes narrow.

“Oh,” he says.

“That’s right, ‘oh’,” Gabriel repeats. “You don’t get to talk to Sam like that. And you really don’t get to invade his head and rattle around in there for months and months.”

“So why don’t I just kill him and the big brother and then I can’t go Charles Xavier on him anymore?”

Gabriel stands more firmly, sets his jaw. He looks much more sturdy than he did a second ago. He’s a brick wall. Luke looks pleased.

“You’d die for him?” he asks.

“I’d die for any of them. The old guy, too.”

“For that pile of cockroaches,” Luke replies, gesturing towards Sam. Gabriel moves to block any possible attack.

“You’d die for him,” the guy says, “why?”

Gabriel takes in a large breath.

“Because they’re better than the both of us,” he says. “They’re better than you and me and Michael were. They’re family. And now I’m their family, and so is Castiel.”

If anything, Luke starts to look a bit mournful. Sam feels the bad version of stomach-butterflies. This is the something that was going to happen at the source of the music; this is the other shoe.

“Brother, don’t make me do this…”

“Nobody’s stopping you.”

Over Luke’s shoulder, another Gabriel winks.

The new hope in Sam’s eyes are what gives him away. The Gabriel standing in front of Sam, shielding him from Luke, disappears as he’s impaled on his own blade.

Sam wakes not with a bang, but with a whimper.

:::: :::: :::: ::::

Great. Just fucking great.

They’ve got Sam back but he’s not doing anything. Neither is Cas, but Cas hasn’t been doing much of anything for the past hour since he went all Mel Gibson on them and Gabriel… Gabriel’s not there. He’s still unconscious or whatever, and he hasn’t even moved.

Like he said, fucking great.

Cas hasn’t given up on trying to talk to him, though.

“Dean,” he rasps, blood bubbling from behind his teeth. “I ask you to forgive me.”

Dean goes still. That’s a new one.

“You haven’t done anything wrong,” he assures him, feeling progressively colder. “Sure, you pulled that stunt, but I should thank you for that. What do you-“

“Do you think bees have feelings?”

“Cas?” Dean says, blinking at him. He’s at a complete loss. Then it seems Cas remembers himself.

“I…” he starts, staring down at his hand. “I’m sorry.”

Sam says something, then groans a little and clutches at his head. Gabriel still lies where he had landed, and Sam hazards a glance at it. Still not moved. That’s not how Gabriel’s supposed to be.

Somewhere in all of this kerfuffle, Dick’s gone away. Dean hadn’t even noticed him leave, but they’re in the clearing, alone, all sitting or lying or dead on the ground.

The ground rumbles.

:::: :::: :::: ::::

Luke wipes a dot of blood from his face. His lower lip trembles briefly but he gets it to stop. Maybe it was imagined.

Three sets of huge, black wings appear where Gabriel’s body lies spread-eagled on the floor, knife still imbedded in his stomach like a flag of surrender.

:::: :::: :::: ::::

“Carry on myyyyyy wayyyyywaaaaaard soooooooooooooooooooooon~”

Bobby presses a switch and feels the first burst of energy tear him apart. Deep down, he knows the boys are alright.

:::: :::: :::: ::::

Somehow, Sam’s not sure how, they’re all back on their feet again and heading towards where they absolutely know Dick is. The projections are telling them, says Cas, and Sam supposes they’re leading him in the same way the music led him to Luke. Dread settles in his gut and he knows this can only end one way, and that’s badly.

It seems Dick’s finally figured out that they mean business. His face isn’t a real face anymore, it’s blurred and it spits periodically, but they’ve seen stranger things and they’re not about to chicken out just because their mark is ugly.

Dean’s got his jacket loaded down with knives, handguns, whatever he could think of. Sam’s still reeling but he’s clutching a huge machete, and a machete isn’t generally something you shake a stick at. As for Cas… Cas hasn’t got anything but his steadfast determination, punctuated by little ten-second acid trips.

“Well,” says Dick with a thousand voices, a tongue flicking out of his giant spiky mouth. “You’ve found me. What’ll it be? Will you allow me to kill you quickly or are you going to rot here?”

“None of the above,” growls Dean, coming forward and shoving one of his knives into Dick’s chest. Nothing happens. The thousand voices start to laugh.

“Stupid!” they bark at him. “You really think you could-“

“Yes,” says Cas, who is now behind Dick and ramming a blade into his neck. “We do.”

The voices screech. Sam covers his ears but it’s too late, he can’t hear anything but ringing and he feels something warm trickle from them. Dick’s face pulls apart into millions of ugly reptilian heads, then morphs back into one and his head whips around like toilet paper in a windstorm.

“Cccccaaaaarrrrryyyyy ooonnnn mmmmyyyyy wwwwwaaaayyyyywwwwwaaaaarrrr rddddd sssssooooonnnnn~”

Sam blinks.

It’s over.

Dick is gone. He’s exploded, or disappeared, or the black goo covering everything in sight is him and he’s going to reform but if he does, Sam doesn’t think he’ll fight him.

Because Dean and Cas are gone, and Gabriel’s dead, and there’s the kick.

He feels a tug behind his navel.

:::: :::: :::: ::::

He blinks into the sunlight filtering through the tissuey curtains. At first he doesn’t remember, he thinks he had been visiting Jess, or talking with Gabriel, and then he remembers horribly-

\- Jess isn’t real, and Gabriel’s dead, and Dean and Cas and Bobby-

\- Dean and Cas and Bobby aren’t in the chairs around him. They’re not anywhere in the warehouse, not from where Sam can see, and he can see pretty well-

\- then the acoustic guitar starts. Sam feels something, tickling his stomach and making him feel cold and small.

The figure turns away from the window.

“-and she’s buying a stairway to heaven~”


End file.
